Blood and Vows.

Chapter 3 — The Shadow of Blame

Sebastian Cortez’s penthouse always looked like it belonged in a glossy magazine: glass walls that stretched to the horizon, steel lines cut sharp, art scattered like trophies. But the truth was simpler—beneath the shine, it was a cage. A beautiful, expensive cage where silence grew heavier than the marble floors.

Tonight, silence was broken by laughter that did not belong to him.

A model—tall, blonde, legs stretching like infinity—sat cross-legged on his bed, draped in one of his shirts as if it were a crown. Her lipstick smeared against the crystal rim of a glass, her perfume sharp enough to cling to every inch of the room. She smiled, wide and shallow, the way women in his world always smiled—hungry for the story of being with him, not for the man himself.

Sebastian sat in the armchair across the room, sleeves rolled to his forearms, nursing a glass of whiskey. His gaze wasn’t on her. It was on the city burning with neon below, lights pulsing like veins of a beast that never slept.

“Stay tonight,” she purred, stretching like a cat, careless of the way her shirt slipped lower. “I’ll make you forget whatever storm is brewing in that head of yours.”

Forget. The word almost made him laugh. He had built his life on remembering: names, debts, betrayals. Forgetting was for fools.

“Leave.” His voice was smooth, detached. He didn’t raise it; he never needed to.

She blinked, startled. “What?”

“Your driver is waiting downstairs. Don’t keep him.”

Her lips parted to argue, but the weight of his stare crushed the attempt. She slid off the bed in silence, gathering her things with sharp movements. The door closed behind her with a click that echoed like punctuation.

The perfume remained. It always did.

“Your taste in women hasn’t improved.”

Leila’s voice came from the shadows. She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, her black suit tailored to hide weapons as easily as it displayed her sharp frame. Her cropped dark hair framed a face made of edges, her eyes glinting with that mixture of loyalty and judgment only she could wear.

Sebastian tilted his glass toward her. “Were you timing me?”

“I didn’t need to. She lasted longer than the last one.”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not everyone can survive in my orbit.”

“Mm.” Leila pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room. “Speaking of survival—you have a meeting with the Japanese tonight. Don’t forget.”

“As if I could.” Sebastian leaned back, the leather chair sighing under his weight. “The Yakuza don’t like being kept waiting. But then, neither do I.”

Leila’s mouth quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Try not to stab one of them if they insult you this time. Cleaning blood out of silk is exhausting.”

He chuckled, a low sound that carried no joy.

The door opened again. This time it was Martin Cortez—not by blood, but by choice, by loyalty forged in fire. Broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, with the calm demeanor of a man who had seen too much and trusted too little.

He closed the door behind him, his expression grim.

“News,” Martin said simply.

Sebastian raised a brow. “Good or bad?”

Martin didn’t blink. “The Agency blames you for the death of one of their own. The narrative is spreading. You’re the villain in their files again.”

Sebastian swirled the whiskey in his glass, the amber liquid catching the city’s glow. “Again? When was I ever anything else?”

Leila’s gaze flicked between them, unreadable.

Martin stepped closer. “This time it’s different. This wasn’t just a faceless agent on a nameless mission. This was Jacob. High-profile. Connected. And you know what that means—”

“Public outrage.” Sebastian finished for him, voice flat. “They’ll paint me as a monster in every room. As if they needed more reason.”

Leila tilted her head. “They don’t need reason. They need a target. And you’re convenient.”

For a moment, silence pulsed. Sebastian set his glass down on the table, his fingers tapping the crystal rim. His face was calm, but a storm flickered behind his eyes.

Finally, he asked, too casually, “And Alex?”

Leila’s brows lifted. “What about her?”

“She was close to Jacob. Closer than most.” His gaze sharpened. “What is she saying?”

Martin’s answer was heavy. “She wants your head.”

The words landed like steel dropped on marble.

Sebastian leaned back, exhaling slowly through his nose. He should have expected it. He had seen the fire in Alex before, the kind of fire that burned bridges and men alike. He should feel nothing but the cold calculation he always relied on.

But he felt something else. A flicker. A memory.

Her eyes, sharp as knives, the night she pulled him from a warehouse fire years ago. She had saved his life once, not knowing whose life she saved.

And now she wanted to end it.

“Of course she does,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Leila studied him, suspicion in her gaze. “You sound almost… nostalgic.”

He shot her a look that made her smirk vanish. “Don’t mistake thoughtfulness for weakness.”

Martin crossed his arms. “Weak or not, we need to prepare. If Alex is out for blood, she won’t stop. She’s like you that way.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. His reflection in the glass wall looked back at him—handsome, powerful, feared. And yet beneath the mask, cracks spread.

“Then let her come,” he said finally, voice smooth as silk, sharp as steel. “Let her chase shadows. When she finds me, she’ll learn what it means to aim at a king.”

Leila’s voice was quiet, almost respectful. “And if she hits?”

Sebastian’s smile was cold, dangerous. “Then she’d better not miss.”

He rose from the chair, adjusting his cuffs, slipping the mask of confidence back into place. The storm outside pressed against the glass, neon bleeding across the skyline.

The Shadow of Blame was already moving, and his name was written all over it.

But Sebastian Cortez had never been afraid of shadows.